


If I Were a Bell

by MlleClaudine



Series: Kim Legaspi/Kerry Weaver [10]
Category: E.R., ER (TV)
Genre: F/F, Road Trips, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleClaudine/pseuds/MlleClaudine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tenth of twelve Kim/Kerry short stories I wrote between 2001-02. The ladies go on a road trip. Endless conversation and graphic but not gratuitous sex ensue. Takes place just before season 7's "A Walk in the Woods." Feedback as always is greatly appreciated!  Posted to FF.net on March 4, 2013.</p><p>Visit my silly Tumblr thingie over at <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine">https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If I Were a Bell: Chapter 1

"What," Kerry frowned as she stared out at the curb, "is _that_?"

Kim, leaning hip-slung against the driver's side door of a silver Audi roadster, correctly interpreted the question as rhetorical and said nothing. A navy shirt, open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves, tucked into faded jeans that embraced long, long legs; Doc Martens, Vuarnets and a canary-eating grin completed the ensemble.

"When you said you were picking up a little something for the weekend, I was expecting groceries, maybe some candles. Bottle of Scotch, even. But not this."

"This, my dear, is a thing of beauty. There's 225 turbocharged horses under the hood. It'll do zero to sixty in just over six seconds and it corners like a mother. And it's all ours until Monday morning." The grin slipped a notch at Kerry's patent lack of enthusiasm. "You don't like it?"

 _Like a mother **what?**_ was on the tip of Kerry's tongue but she caught herself in time. "You know how many convertible-related injuries I see? Not many, because by the time EMS responds, most of the victims are _dead_. Just ask Alice Upton about the guy who got decapitated — "

"And they brought him to the morgue in two body bags, one of them really small, yeah, I heard. I also heard he'd been reenacting a scene from 'Smokey and the Bandit.' Somehow I don't think we're in a whole lot of danger of that happening, unless you're a closet Burt Reynolds fan and you just haven't been able to bring yourself to tell me yet."

"Kim, it's March. It's still freezing outside and you're driving with the top down."

"That's why the automobile gods made heaters. Yes, it is March, and yes, it is freezing. Which is profoundly wrong. This is supposed to be springtime. I want to see green leaves and flowers and fornicating squirrels, dammit. I want to go someplace where I don't have to defrost my ass after stepping out to get the mail."

Several vivid ideas for just how Kim's ass might be defrosted popped into Kerry's head; ruthlessly she squelched them and crutched down her front steps, circling warily around the sleek vehicle that crouched in front of her much more conservative sedan. "It looks," she said finally, "like someone took a can opener to a Beetle and then mashed it flat."

Kim smirked. "Okay, now you're reaching. Anything else?"

"Where the hell are you going to put your luggage?" For all her casually-thrown-together-ness, Kim usually packed for even short trips as though she were going to emigrate.

"Already in the trunk. Wasn't planning on needing a whole lot of clothing."

Kerry shivered at the images _that_ conjured up. Whatever her reservations, it would be nice to get away from gray and dreary Chicago, and it wasn't often that their schedules coincided so that she and Kim had a whole three-day weekend off at the same time. Besides... the thing was kind of cute.

"Kerry?"

"All right. But I get to drive."

The smirk fell off Kim's face.

Heh.


	2. If I Were a Bell: Chapter 2

"You should have flirted with her," said Kim as Kerry sat fuming in the passenger seat. "Catch more flies with honey, you know. Might've at least been able to keep your license."

"I've never understood that expression; why in the world would you want to catch flies? And anyway, isn't that stereotyping, assuming a female police officer is a lesbian?"

"Maybe. But when a female police officer blatantly checks out your rack and your ass, it's a pretty safe bet."

"Are you sure? When did she — my _'rack'_? I think you've been hanging out with Jordan a bit too much."

"Come on, don't tell me you didn't see that casual little over-the-sunglasses move. And she was watching the whole time you were walking back to the car. Not that I blame her; it's an outstanding view."

"Didn't stop her from writing the ticket," Kerry groused. "I wasn't going that fast."

"Only 98 in a 65."

"This whole part of the state is a cornfield. What am I going to do, run a cow off the road?"

"I'm not arguing with that. I'm just saying you could have finessed the situation a little better."

"Oh, and I suppose you could have talked your way out of it."

"And gotten the cop's phone number to boot." Kerry shot her an acid look. "Kidding."

Though it was probably true. Kim drew attention like — well, like flies to honey, and it was a rare person who didn't react in some way to her sheer physical presence.

Male responses were fairly predictable, and Kerry had begun learning to decipher signs of flirting from queer women, of whom there were many more than she would previously have guessed. But the reactions of straight women were far more interesting. Occasionally there was antipathy, the instant bridling arousal of jealousy or competitiveness. More often, though, the women's gazes lingered for just a second too long, sometimes frankly speculative, sometimes with surprised appreciation.

She wondered if that was what Kim had seen in her, and if she had been so nakedly obvious.

Kerry half-turned in her seat, scrunching against supple leather, idly watching Kim's hair streaming in the breeze. It was such a glorious day, sun shining bright-new in a cloudless sky, the air clear and free of the Chicago haze she took for granted, that it was impossible to stay in a bad mood.

And Kim was right, the car had been a blast to drive. The little Audi was amazingly responsive. Unexpectedly quiet, too; with the wind-blocking mechanism in place, they barely had to raise their voices to talk. Its clutch effort was fairly stiff, though, and she'd felt her hip fatiguing not long before the cop had pulled her over. Not that she would have admitted it.

Her lover drove smoothly and with obvious enjoyment. Few other cars intruded on their road; when they came upon one, Kim would drop unnecessarily into fourth — purely for the visceral pleasure of hearing the civilized snarl as she rev-matched the finely tuned engine, Kerry suspected — in order to pass it. Kim's left hand caressed the leather-wrapped wheel; her right rested lightly on the gearshift knob, drumming along to the beat of the music.

Deeply grooved muscles in the forearm played easily under lightly tanned skin. Reaching over, Kerry gently brushed her fingers up and down its well-defined length, from the slender, deceptively delicate-looking wrist to just below the elbow where the fold of heavy linen sleeve prevented further access, sporadically meandering along the veins that stood out maplike in precise bas relief.

The drumming stilled and a smile tugged at the corner of Kim's mouth. "Something I can do for you, lady?"

"Maybe." Kerry kept up the stroking but gradually altered the pressure until she was barely skimming fine down that glittered gold in the sun. She was pleased by the visible increase in the pulse at the throat. There was no protest at all when she prised the hand away from the shifter and pulled it toward her.

Kim had such beautiful hands: long, with tapering fingers that ended in blunt neatly trimmed nails, unmistakably feminine despite the calluses and the ever-present scars.

A new one, still faintly reddened but healing, arced across the palm, ironically extending the life line. "What happened here?" Kerry asked as she traced the ridge with a fingertip.

"Piece of reaction wood split when I routed a dado into it."

She couldn't help it. A fit of giggling overtook her.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," said Kerry, still snickering. "I have no idea why but that just sounded naughty. What's reaction wood?"

"Abnormal wood formed in a leaning tree. It's really dense and uncooperative and it'll crack when you nail or screw it. Oh, come _on_ ," Kim said when Kerry laughed even harder. Though they were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses Kerry could tell the blue eyes were rolling skyward. "Remind me not to tell you about butt-matching the crotch veneer for my dining table."

"You're making that up."

"Nope. There's even established crotch grain patterns: swirled, feathered, rat-tailed -– I swear, Kerry, anyone would think you were in fourth grade." Kim made a half-hearted attempt to pull her hand away but Kerry squeezed it firmly, trapping it until the worst of the hysterics passed. "You done?"

"Not quite." Kerry bent her head and planted a lingering kiss in the center of the palm. Carefully she raked her teeth over the fleshy mound at the base of the thumb and sucked hard, leaving a dark red mark.

Kim swallowed. Emboldened, Kerry nibbled her way to the sensitive inner aspect of the wrist, taking in with her mouth the tastes of salt and leather and a trace of perfume.

"Uh... Kerry?"

"Yes, Kim?" she said innocently.

"You want me to pull over?"

Finding the controls, Kerry reclined her seat as far as it would go, then placed the hand between her legs. "No."

The elegant eyebrows arched. Still looking straight ahead, Kim slowed to just under the speed limit, the engine settling into a barely audible purr.

One long finger investigated delicately. Kerry's thighs parted and awkwardly she tried to press up against the elusive, teasing caress, succeeding only in slipping farther down in her seat, feet jammed into the floorboard, shoulder strap of the seatbelt digging into her neck.

"Just relax," Kim said. Kerry did her best to comply, trying all the while not to grind her teeth.

Deftly the hand released the catch of the seatbelt and then undid the fastener at her waistband, lowering the zipper enough to be able to slide underneath the fabric but remaining maddeningly still. _God, Kim, what are you **waiting** for?_

No, not entirely still. If she concentrated, kept the tension from coiling her taut, Kerry could feel subtle changes in the warm pressure resting below her belly and just above her pubic mound, tiny unhurried circles and undulations that widened and deepened almost imperceptibly.

Its effect was extraordinary. She felt as though she were suspended, tied to the earth by only this simple, seemingly innocuous contact, the passage of time marked by the increasing tempo of her breath, until she imagined that she could actually hear the tidal rush of blood into the swelling rippling of her cunt.

"Please... "

Kim grinned wolfishly and Kerry sighed a full-body exhale of relief at the first touch, the marvelous fingers unerring as they delved into and around tender flesh, their explorations slickly eased by copious wet warmth.

The relief was short lived. Her growing excitement made it more and more difficult to not move, but the fingers infuriatingly retreated at the slightest hint of strain in her body. "Shhh... let it come to you."

Pent up frustration gave vent to a long moan, but it was only after an eternity of sweet torture that the fingers took pity on her and settled into an explicit rhythm, their curled tips probing and rotating in her helplessly clutching channel, the heel of the palm kneading firmly her throbbing clit. Still she fought for quiescence, fought to control the involuntary clenching of her buttocks and thighs, the unaccustomed passivity adding a knife edge of near pain to raw delight until even breathing became a struggle, her hammering heart stingily allowing room only for raucous syncopated gasps, and then she shrieked as release shattered her with shocking, blinding intensity, Kim's hand unrelenting as it urged her through the crisis and its hundred little echoes until every fiber in her being was spent.

Kerry lay slumped in her seat, recovering possession of herself, head lolling, arms dangling at her sides. She was dimly aware that this was a supremely uncomfortable position but her legs, jellylike, refused to obey her commands.

"You okay?"

"Mmm."

"Um. Can I have my hand back? I'm kind of losing circulation."

Grudgingly she unclasped her thighs and let the captive go, inhaling sharply as it brushed against swollen, hypersensitive tissues. Through slitted eyes Kerry watched as Kim brought the fingers to her own lips and slowly, meditatively sucked them clean.

"Shit!"

Kerry started with a jerk, astonished that she'd actually fallen asleep. "What is it?"

"Cop." Kim's mouth set in a line that turned into a scowl as Kerry began laughing. "It's not funny."

"Yes it is. Okay, Slick, you're up. Let's see you get out of this one."


	3. If I Were a Bell: Chapter 3

"I can't believe he let you off with just a warning."

I glance over. Kerry has her arms crossed again and she's glaring into the horizon. I don't have the heart to tell her she looks adorable.

"Well, I can't believe he pulled me over because of the _seatbelt law_. I mean, of all the things that we were violating — "

" 'We'?" she snarks.

"Don't recall any objections at the time," I say blandly. Which only makes her madder, so I let her stew in silence for a while. Besides, I don't want her getting too curious about why the cop let me go.

The usual fluttering-blonde act had been going over fairly well and I'd just been warming up to it when Kerry decided to get out and stretch.

Part of me seethed at the pity in his eyes. Part of me was dying to tell this yahoo exactly _why_ her legs weren't working properly. But the Jiminy Cricket voice that sometimes pipes up and pulls the reins in on my impulses won out. I'd practically bitten my cheek in half staying quiet while he puffed into _Now-see-here-little-lady_ mode. Meekly I'd gone back to the car, then driven off at funeral procession pace until we'd left him far behind.

The CD player spins through half of the "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" soundtrack before her fit of pique finally dissipates.

"Hey, Kerry, are you hungry?"

"Yeah."

"Can you hang on for a little while longer? I know this great place in Louisville."

"Sure. What kind of place?"

"Hard to explain. Sort of ironic retro kitsch on speed. The decor's amazing. Last time I was there they had a 25-foot mural of Muhammad Ali and Secretariat that was made out of different colored ears of corn."

"Should I bother asking if the food is any good?"

"Oh, the food's terrific. But the real draw is the original artwork they have all around the restaurant, and the incredibly tacky lamps on the tables. Trust me, it has to be seen to be believed."

"I'll take your word for it."

The Blind Boys of Alabama weave their spell and she hums along, sometimes singing quietly. Kerry doesn't have a big or especially musical voice but at least it's mostly on pitch and it makes a nice contrast against the low velvet harmonies.

"Kim?"

"Hmm?"

"How long did it take that guy to change his mind about the ticket when he saw the poor cripple with the crutch stumbling around?"

I turn and frankly stare; Kerry's expression is the picture-book definition of _smug_. "You devious little... you knew?"

"Under Indiana law you would have been liable and I didn't think it was a good idea for us both to lose our licenses. And it was the least I could do for you after you — um, after. So?"

"He couldn't tear it up fast enough."

"Figured. Besides," she adds, her voice dropping into a wicked register, "I plan on taking payment for the favor out of your ass in trade."

Suddenly I'm not sure if I'll be able to make it through lunch without jumping her. I'm still shaking my head when we pull into Lynn's.

***********************************************************************************************

"That's it, I'm never eating again," Kerry says, leaning briefly for support against a blue concrete bear statue before flopping into her seat.

"Told you the food was terrific." Reluctantly I slide behind the wheel and buckle in, the straps tight over the Manhattan scramble and BLT fries bloating my stomach. Probably shouldn't have had that last helping of cheese grits. "I know it's kind of early but what do you say we find a place to stay for the night?"

"Sounds good to me." She burps genteelly. "Anyway, it's not like we're heading anywhere in particular. Are we?"

"Not really." When we'd left her house this morning I'd entertained the idea of pushing through to Atlanta but now the thought of five more hours on the road — plus driving back to Chicago on Sunday — wasn't all that appealing. _Getting old, Legaspi_.

Then again, age and treachery have their perks, as Kerry likes to say, not least of which is being able to pop for a Concierge Level suite at the Seelbach, with a private entrance and a respectfully helpful staff who don't so much as blink at your oldest Levi's and scuffed 'kickers.

Kerry, it turns out, _loves_ staying in hotels. Doesn't hurt that this is the only four-star in town; major girlfriend points, I congratulate myself. I remove my boots and with a very ladylike grunt sprawl across the sofa in the living area while she happily investigates, admiring the mahogany poster bed and swiping the little bottles of shampoo and lotion from the marble bathroom.

The sound of running water nudges me back to consciousness. I do a few stretches to work out the kinks and haul myself off in its direction.

Naked wet redhead. Mm.

Make that naked wet _horny_ redhead. Kerry licks her lips and leers in unmistakable invitation.

Never losing eye contact with her, I take my time undressing, lingering especially over the buttons of my fly. She flounces to the end of the enormous clawfoot tub — it's nearly big enough for her to swim in — and props her arms on the edge to watch my improvised striptease. Finally I join her, stepping in gingerly and slipping behind her to pull her into an embrace. She makes a sound like a contented puppy into the curve of my shoulder.

I breathe in deeply. "I like this. Jasmine, almond, lemongrass... what's the woodsy smell?"

"Eucalyptus and a touch of ylang ylang."

Kerry bends her head to capture one of my nipples in her mouth, lazily exploring its surface. At every silken twirl or cat-rough swipe, an answering jolt impacts my groin. With a rumble that originates somewhere around my belly button, I lean back to give her better access. She reaches out to grab a rolled towel from the tubside rack and tuck it behind my head, then diligently returns to her self-appointed task.

God. She's picked up that I don't want her to draw this out, that the embers I've banked for most of the day are swiftly flaring into white heat.

Her mouth travels greedily to my other breast, her hand wandering across my belly. She slides down, lips bestowing their benediction of the flesh along the way. The tub is almost but not quite long enough for her to lie at full length between my legs, a minor setback she solves by bending my knees and draping my ankles over the sides. Buoyed by scalding water and scented steam, I am moored by fingers that glide into me, filling me, stretching me, undulating deliciously. Even as a hoarse voice I barely recognize as my own pleads with her to hurry, I feel her tongue delving, circling, lapping on either side of my clit, now and then flicking gently at the very tip, which provokes a startled arch upward, my body taut as a strung bow.

The fingers inside me swivel, alternating between a come-hither flexion and a deeper, subtler motion with their flattened lengths pressing against the rear wall of my cunt. Softly at first, then more vigorously, she sucks my clit into her mouth and ravishes it with her tongue, passing over and around it and lashing it from side to side as my limited movements in this distinctly awkward position become frantic, deliriously seeking more harder faster until at last I am wracked by furious wrenching spasms, bucking into the air and contracting wildly around her hand.

Not content, she continues her exquisite assault, wordlessly exhorting me through ever-expanding cycles of fervent buildup and release until I actually have to ask her to stop.

Tenderly Kerry unhooks my trembling legs, letting them fall back into the water. Crawling up, she wraps herself around me, holding me securely while I recover.

"Holy fucking shit... "

Sometimes there's no other way to express what you feel, especially when conscious thought has been thoroughly scrambled in a mind-blowing excess of pleasure. Kerry clearly understands, and serenely claims me with a kiss. "You're welcome."


	4. If I Were a Bell: Chapter 4

A call down to Housekeeping produced a thick stack of fresh towels, their original supply having been pressed into service to mop up what seemed like a hundred gallons of water.

"That maid winked at me," said Kerry, snuggling back against Kim on the sofa; long slender arms encircled her. "Do you think she knew?"

She felt a light ruffling of her hair as Kim soundlessly laughed. "Kerry, given the state of the floor and the fact that we're wearing nothing but hotel bathrobes, I think she probably had a pretty good idea."

"It... didn't seem to faze her at all. Us, I mean."

"There isn't much they haven't seen in this place. Dickens once got thrown out for being rude to the owner. Scott Fitzgerald used to pass out regularly on the ballroom floor. And Al Capone played poker in the private dining room when he stayed here during bootlegging runs. I doubt very much that we'd even be a blip on the scandal radar."

"Oh." Kerry nibbled at her lower lip, mulling that over. "Wonder what it would take to get thrown out these days."

"Is that a hypothetical question or a challenge?"

"Let me think about it."

Kim chuckled, hugging her tightly. "Why am I suddenly worried?"

A knock at the door announced the arrival of their wine, which was swaddled in snowy linen and surrounded by beautifully arrayed fruits, breads and cheeses. Kerry signed for the tab and directed the busboy to open the bottle and arrange the minor bacchanalia out on the balcony, waiting until he discreetly vanished before poking around the various platters.

Small golden brown puffs still steamed from the oven. She popped one in her mouth and moaned as flaky buttery pastry and melted Gruyère dissolved on her tongue.

"I thought you were never eating again," teased Kim, enveloping her from behind and nuzzling her.

"Might have exaggerated slightly. Here, try one of these."

"Mmm. Tastes almost as good as you do."

Kim's voice burred low and husky, triggering a warm tingling sensation at the back of her neck. But Kerry wasn't yet ready for what she'd already mentally termed Round Three; if they didn't pace themselves, she thought wryly, she'd be lucky to be walking unassisted by the end of the weekend.

Fortunately Kim seemed to sense that, merely holding her closely, though busy lips were doing enchanting things to the nerve endings in her earlobe. Kerry turned to face her tormenter and laid her cheek against thick clean-damp terry, enjoying the closeness and warmth. Reluctantly she let go, gesturing for Kim to sit in one of the gracefully slender chairs by the laden wrought iron table as she sank into the other.

Kim reached out to inspect the bottle but Kerry stayed her hand. "I wanted to surprise you. This isn't one you have in your cellar, I'm pretty sure. Here," she said, pouring a generous amount of opaque purplish black wine into both glasses, "tell me what you think."

Raising a brow, Kim went through the eyeball-swirl-and-sniff ritual with utter solemnity. She took a small sip and rolled it around her mouth. "Oh, man. Cabernet. Californian, definitely Napa Valley, from that incredible '97 vintage. Unfiltered, fermented with wild yeast, fruit-forward, very controlled tannins; classic Helen Turley technique. Too big for Colgin, too complex for Pahlmeyer... okay, got it: Bryant Family, 1997 Cabernet Sauvignon."

Kerry stared in openmouthed disbelief. "How... ?"

"Years of systematic study and contemplation," said Kim loftily, then, in a more normal tone of voice, "also, I overheard you talking with the sommelier when you were ordering it. You were pretty, ah, adamant."

"I merely suggested that a four-star hotel with a five-star restaurant should have a more complete winelist."

"You didn't have to insult his parentage. This is the South, you know; disparaging someone's Momma can be deadly. Besides, he found it, didn't he?"

"Charged me an arm and a leg and my firstborn child for the privilege."

"Worth every cent. Remind me to put in an order for a couple cases when we get home."

They sat together in companionable silence, sipping the phenomenal wine and feeding each other tidbits from the hors d'oeuvre trays. Kim's bare foot slowly massaged Kerry's calf, while Kerry watched Kim's hair transform from shining blonde to burnished gold to molten bronze as the light shifted with the setting of the sun.

In the half-light of dusk, the long curls gleamed brightly once again and Kerry couldn't resist running her fingers through them. Kim leaned into the caress, then obligingly bent forward in response to the tug at her lapel so that Kerry could whisper in her ear.

***********************************************************************************************

"You want me to what?"

"You're kind of cute when your eyebrows do that. You heard me."

"Just double-checking. Did you bring... anything?"

"What do you think is in the makeup case?"

"Oh, really? You know, I did wonder why you'd brought that along, especially on a trip like this. I mean, I've never seen you wear anything other than powder and mascara, maybe a little foundation or blusher, and it's not like we've got the clothes to go anywhere really formal, so why would I suppose you'd suddenly decide to — "

"Kim, honey, you're babbling. Does the idea shock you that much?"

"I'm a psychiatrist, Kerry, nothing shocks me. Let's just say that I'm pleasantly, ah, off-balance. Um... can I see?"

"My little bag of tricks? Sure, be right back. Don't move."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

...

"Tadaaa. Here you go."

"Took you long enough."

"According to the experts a certain amount of preparation is necessary to maximize the experience."

"True. I'll bet you were an exemplary Girl Scout."

"I was. I'll bet you got kicked out for eating Brownies."

"Ha! Not quite, but the Scout leader did have a little chat with my parents after I announced to the troop that I was going to marry Mary-Kate Connolly. Let's see what we have here. Good heavens, Kerry, did you buy one of everything in the lube department?"

"I didn't know if you'd have a preference. Or if I would."

"For starters, you can leave out the silicone-based ones — they work great but they're unbelievably messy to clean up and I simply refuse to make _that_ call to Housekeeping. And you can take the K-Y back to the hospital; that's pretty much useless for our nefarious purposes."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Dries out too fast. Believe me, this is one application where quick is not an asset. Oh, how cute!"

" 'Cute'?"

"I had no idea they made them in this size."

"Well, yours are all a bit too much. See, it's a lot narrower — "

"Kerry, I think we'd better go inside before this turns into an open-air peepshow."

"Oh? Oh! How long have those people been standing in that window?"

"I don't know. Just be glad they don't have binoculars or directional microphones. Unless you want to test your theory on what it would take to get thrown out of the hotel. Besides, I'm pretty sure that in the state of Kentucky, what you want me to do with this would get us arrested as well."

"Kim. Bedroom. Now."

"Ma'am, yes, _ma'am_."

***********************************************************************************************

"The crucial thing," said Kim, "is to relax."

Considering that her bones and muscles were currently liquefying into puddles of indolent bliss under Kim's sure, strong touch, relaxing was not exactly a problem. "Mmhmm."

Kim moved so that the long deliberate strokes incorporated Kerry's buttocks, which reflexively sought to mold themselves into the hands that cupped and kneaded them. Small kisses alighted at random down her back, and she quivered as a questing tongue mapped out the very base of her spine.

Hands lifted her hips to slide a pillow as well as some towels underneath her, then fondled her cheeks before steadily pushing them apart. Kerry gasped, squirming when the leisurely survey of the exposed depths resumed.

It was a curiously intimate communication that never failed to transform her into a shamelessly wanton, sopping mess. Her pelvis gyrated involuntarily in slow circles and figure eights, bringing every possible surface and crevice to bear in the tongue's dancing course, little explosions of sensation radiating outward at each minute palpitation.

The tongue retreated, its abrupt absence acutely disappointing. Any complaints Kerry might have voiced, however, petered out at the slow slide of warmed lube trickling into the split of her ass, followed by the crinkly gossamer weight of... Saran Wrap? A quick peek over her shoulder confirmed that Kim was indeed smoothing a square of clear plastic — no doubt filched from their room service order — into place. "What... ?"

"Shhh. Trust me, Kerry."

With the barrier, Kerry found that she preferred a firmer, more focused motion. Kim obliged, and soon the tongue was teasing her open, insinuating itself past the spasming muscular ring and foraging deep inside.

Finally the plastic wrap was lifted away. She heard the snap of a glove, then felt the cautious entry of a single well-lubricated finger. Carefully the finger began working in yet more of the slippery gel with which Kim was dousing her. _Evidently a student of the "Too much lube is nearly enough" school of thought_ , Kerry concluded disjointedly, writhing and keening in hedonistic frenzy, barely noticing when a second and eventually a third finger joined the first.

Kim's free hand stole around to cup her damp tangle from the front, further inflaming her with devastatingly precise, agile maneuvers that kept her right at the threshold of the abyss without ever quite letting her go over the edge.

"Kerry, honey? Can you do something for me?"

She mumbled into the sheets.

"I'll take that as a yes. Lie on your side — that's it, pull the pillow out from under you, you can hang on to it for support — and then bend your other leg up toward your chest. That's my girl."

Kerry nearly whimpered when the fingers withdrew, the emptiness and sense of loss almost palpable, but soon felt something firm and smooth and cool nudge lightly against her rear passage. Determinedly, she pushed back.

"You know," Kim said dryly, "this isn't exactly a good time to be so goal-oriented. Breathe, Kerry."

The release of laughter — and the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding — was enough to dispel the anticipatory tension that had crept into her body, and suddenly she was no longer too tight. Even so, Kim advanced only by infinitesimal increments and it took many long minutes to bury the dildo to the hilt.

They lay together, panting, as Kerry adjusted to the unfamiliar intrusion. There was none of the pain she had expected, only a mild, almost claustrophobic panic that passed when her body found the proper angle to accommodate Kim's new appendage.

Mostly, she decided, she just felt _full_.

But then Kim's hips began to rock, sometimes thrusting minutely, sometimes making tiny circles, and Kerry cried out softly in surprised pleasure. Her internal sphincter responded by squeezing in synch with the small movements, which along with the constant stimulation of her clit induced an echoing rhythm in her drooling, grasping cunt. The energy built slowly, gradually taking over her entire body: limbs flailing, toes flexing into rigid knots, waves of a new, profoundly disturbing and exciting tension emanating from the foundation of her pelvis and roaring outward as she shuddered and twitched and howled.

Kim held her close, riding out the storm, undocking carefully when the convulsions subsided. Kerry heard jingling and a soft thud as the harness hit the floor, the padding of footsteps and the hiss of the sink, and then Kim was beside her again, applying a warm compress to her backside and stroking her hair.

"Hey. You okay?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Anything hurt?"

"A little sore. 'll be fine. Come back here."

Hands lifted her up to remove soaked cloths and dried her with clean ones. The bed dipped and at last the welcome press of a long body spooned against her.

"Kerry?"

"Mm?"

"We're out of towels again. Your turn to call this time."

Giggles spiraled into snorts and shouts of laughter, winding down until both of them at last drifted off to sleep.


	5. If I Were a Bell: Chapter 5

I awake around midnight, intensely aware of several things.

One, I'm hungry. Right on cue, my stomach grumbles vociferously, tailing off in a rising high-pitched gurgling whine.

Two, I seriously need to pee. The half-bottle of wine I'd drunk earlier is clamoring to make a reappearance.

Three, I am all but glued to Kerry's thigh.

Sometime within the past few hours my leg evidently found its way between hers and the combination of come and lube dried together has stuck us fast.

I try pulling the leg back and wince in sympathy. Shit. Kerry's likely to be tender enough without my yanking half her pubic hair out by the roots.

She is sound asleep, her breathing deep and even, punctuated intermittently by dainty slurping snores. Tentatively I nudge her shoulder. "Kerry?"

Nothing.

Jostling her harder results only in a mewl of complaint and sends her burrowing more deeply into her pillow.

I slide my hand between us. Tight fit but maneuverable. Unfortunately that isn't really where the worst of the adhesion is.

Holding my breath, I ease my hand around front.

"You couldn't wait until I was conscious?" she says, groggily peeved.

"Sorry, Kerry, but we've sort of got a situation here."

"And that situation required your groping me in my sleep?"

"I wasn't groping you, exactly."

"What do you call rummaging around my crotch, _exactly_?"

"Desperate measures. Nature beckons."

"Why the hell didn't you just — ow!"

"That would be my point."

"Smartass."

"A little less sarcasm and a little more constructive action would be nice."

"Fine. Put your hand back where it was."

"Um, okay. Now what?"

"How much do you remember from high school Latin?"

"Not much, except that I had a major crush on Terese d'Agostino."

"Figures. What about Chemistry?"

"Lorena Koncz. What does this have to do with — "

"I give up. I'll spell it out for you, Legaspi: a solvent is a substance, usually a liquid, capable of dissolving another substance. Comes from the Latin _solvens_ , present participle of _solvere_ , 'to loosen.'"

"Oh." Sneaky little redheaded fiend. "Kerry, don't take this the wrong way, but it's really not a good idea to make me laugh right now."

"Exinde potius properare."

Skipping the prologue and going straight to the opening verse isn't normally my style but Kerry doesn't seem to mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. My leg soon slithers free but I'm too busy conjugating certain verbs and declining a very interesting little noun to care.

"O, Deus, Kim. Confrica! Celera!"

Imperative present tense singular. I comply even as my eyebrow reflexively flies up. Must've paid more attention in class than I'd thought.

"Ne desinere! Medius fidius, ne desinere!"

Hadn't planned to. Already she's thrashing jerkily about, stealing halting breaths between grunts and sobs. She climaxes astonishingly quickly, pulsing against my hand in a drawn-out series of diminishing paroxysms.

" _Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera..._ " she murmurs, rolling toward me to suit word to action. I revel in her delicious warmth and softness until I can no longer ignore the increasingly urgent message from my bladder. Breaking away, I practically vault over her to bolt for the bathroom.

Loose-bellied with relief, I saunter back to bed, where Kerry drapes herself around me. Lightly I skitter my fingernails up and down her back; sighing, she snuggles closer, kissing and suckling her way along my neck.

" _Quod si quis monitis tardas adverterit auris, heu referet quanto verba dolore mea!_ "

"Canicula." She bites me hard enough to bruise. And then proceeds to demonstrate her own mastery of the Latin tongue.

Dead language, my ass.


	6. If I Were a Bell: Chapter 6

The noise crawled into her consciousness and pried her eyelids apart. Kerry blinked drowsily, taking in the strange surroundings and slowly remembering where she was. And what she'd been doing. And with whom. She smiled, stretched luxuriously with a jaw-cracking yawn, and rolled over.

Kim was sitting cross-legged on her side of the bed, naked save for the large room service menu propped open on her lap. Low light from the table lamp infused the room with a warm glow, limning the heavy tumble of golden hair that partly obscured the finely cut features of her face.

At Kerry's movement, the small frown of concentration melted into a sheepish grin. "Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't. It was the borborygmic chorus."

Kerry hauled herself upright and reached over to give the lean muscular expanse of Kim's belly a poke. Instantly, the growling changed pitch. She tried a different spot; the growling segued into a crescendo of rumbles and squeaks.

A vise grip clamped onto her wrist before she could experiment further. "Stop that. I am not a Fisher-Price toy."

Changing tactics, Kerry slipped her other hand beneath the menu and was rewarded with an outraged squawk. "I don't know, you've been highly educational for me. Certainly puts a different spin on 'See and Say' — I can just imagine the ad campaign."

" 'The cow says, _Mooooo_. The cranky starving lesbian says, _If you don't cut that out and feed me soon you may just lose that hand_.' "

"Too wordy; you'd never get all that in one pull of the string."

"Never mind my string. I need to eat."

"So do I."

"Food, Kerry, _food_. Oh... "

"Found the funniest little button down here. I wonder what it does."

"Shit!"

"No, I'm pretty sure that's not one of its functions. Well, would you look at that. Pops right up, like a gopher."

"Dammit, Kerry!" Kim surrendered, giggling helplessly. The heavy menu slid forgotten to the floor as she lay back into a pile of pillows and caught hold of the headboard above. Kerry shoved the duvet aside and ensconced herself comfortably between the long legs as they scissored about her shoulders, framing with her hands the sculptural opulence within.

Her field of vision filled with ripe bursts of saturated color: the bright pink of the clit alertly standing sentinel, the dusky rose of the inner labia lightening to palest coral at their edges, the blood-dark fourchette shading into the depths of the entrance it bordered, the entire dynamic palette glistening as Kerry's tongue lovingly painted each fold and ridge with the heady evidence of Kim's arousal.

God, she loved this. If someone had told her, not even six months previously, that the sight, the touch, the scent, and most especially the taste of a woman, _this_ woman, would be as potently, demandingly addictive for her as any drug, well... she probably would have called for a psych consult. Kim was as complex as wine, with a rich sweetness underlying the salt and tang and musk, the dizzying fragrance recalling birth and the sea.

"Ah, don't stop!"

"Thought you were hungry."

"Are you trying to kill me, Weaver?"

"Not yet. I've still got one or two things in mind for you."

"Oh, fuck."

Kerry shifted, transferring most of her weight onto one elbow and allowing the fingers of her other hand to roam. Rolling with the oscillation of Kim's hips, Kerry continued nibbling, licking and swirling while her fingers one by one coaxed their way inside.

Tucking her thumb alongside the fingers, Kerry slowly worked the slender wedge in, stopping when she met resistance at the widest part of her hand. She zeroed in on the slippery little bundle of nerves, capturing it in an open-mouthed embrace, worrying at the tip with velvet lips and plaguing its tumid shaft with butterfly-delicate flicks of her tongue, patiently, unyieldingly keeping up the provocation long after the beckoning entrance it guarded greedily opened for more.

"Kerry... _please_... "

She snaked her arm behind Kim and moved so that she was almost cradling the taller woman. Her hand, drenched in Kim's juices, needed only a steady, rotating pressure before it was engulfed, folding naturally in on itself into a compact bundle whose slightest rocking twisting plunging movements were visible, telegraphed through taut sweat-sheened skin.

Changing tempo and pattern repeatedly until Kim lay gasping and heaving, at last Kerry relented and bent her head once more to the straining clit, plying it forcefully in time with her pistoning arm, letting Kim settle into a regular rhythm that devolved rapidly into turbulence. Muffled cries coalesced into an inarticulate wail, heralding the imminent awesome sea-change that left Kim quaking, still clinging feebly to the bed frame, and utterly drained.

Kerry waited until the tremors ceased and went absolutely slack before extracting her hand, which felt more than a little pulverized. Flexing it, she did a surreptitious neuro and ortho check while the pins-and-needles ebbed.

"You have a hangnail," said Kim languorously, floating in whatever blissed-out plane she'd been transported to.

"What?" There it was, a minuscule crag beside the cuticle of her ring finger. _Shit_. "I'm sorry, why didn't you say anything? Here, let me see — "

"Oh, no you don't, Kerry Weaver. My mother warned me about playing doctor with girls like you."

"I just want to examine you, make sure you're not injured."

"Barely noticed it. But no more 'examining' until the patient gets fed."

"No one ever listens to her physician these days. Here," Kerry reached down to retrieve the menu. "Uh oh."

"Uh oh what?"

"Room service stops after 1:00. Kitchen's closed until 6:00."

The rangy body went even more limp, the neglected stomach once again loudly airing its grievances. "Damn."

"I could get you a hideously overpriced candy bar from the vending machine — no, wait, look, there's a 24-hour Krispy Kreme not far from the hotel."

Animated by the magic words, Kim sprang out of bed, rummaging around for clothing and flinging it on. "Come on, Kerry, what are you waiting for?"

"Shouldn't we, ah, clean up a bit first?"

"The only people who are going to be in a doughnut shop at 3:00 am are cops and hookers. No one's going to pay attention to a couple of women who look and smell like they've been fucking like bunnies. Let's go."


	7. If I Were a Bell: Chapter 7

Morning — much, much later that morning — found Kerry wide awake and contemplating her lover's back, admiring the way a stray sunbeam beautifully delineated the intricate joinings of long flat muscle and knurled ridged bone along the spine. Not wanting to wake Kim, she had to forcibly refrain from running her fingers over the pale-honey skin, knowing exactly its textures and the places that elicited shivers and moans at her lightest touch...

Mentally she shook herself. _Almost forty and you've developed the libido of a teenaged boy_. Well, she had a lot of making up to do.

But not right now. Kim was heavily asleep; half a dozen doughnuts, semisolid and dripping glaze straight from the cooker, would put anyone into a sugar coma.

Probably just as well, Kerry decided, catching a whiff of their mingled body odor as she shifted under the covers. The rich scents of their marathon lovemaking were still intriguing but now undeniably ripe.

Cautiously she slipped out of bed, automatically finding her crutch and using it for balance as she stretched, arching and flexing her back, rolling her shoulders, massaging her gratifyingly overtaxed thighs.

The bathroom's shower enclosure housed a dauntingly complicated unit that bristled with knobs and valves and looked as though it would require a license to operate. Hesitantly she pushed a button at random and yelped when a burst of warm water hit her at about waist level. Examining the panel more closely, she discovered the individual jets were completely adjustable, in height and angle and force. _Oohhh_...

When Kerry finally had the thing tweaked to her liking, she moaned with hedonistic satisfaction. As she stood lightly braced against the wall-mounted grab bar, the lower jets sent a gentle stream coursing over her calves while the middle ones directed a thunderous torrent at her left hip and lower back. The upper ones she turned off, preferring instead the gentle rainfall effect of the oversized round showerhead suspended from the ceiling. The sauna setting completely obscured the glass walls with dense steam through which colorful dancing light patterns played.

It was damn near hypnotic. She lost track of how long she'd been standing there when the door cracked open and Kim's rumpled head poked in. "Having fun?"

"You have _no_ idea. Do you think the hotel would mind if I took this with me?"

"Somehow I doubt they put that in the same category as soap and sewing kits. Besides, you'd have a hell of a time stuffing it into your bag."

"That settles it. I'm never leaving this shower."

"Weaver, I refuse to be dumped for a piece of plumbing."

"I won't dump you as long as you get in here and quit letting out all the steam."

"Thought you'd never ask."

The whoosh of cool air as Kim stepped in was quickly eradicated when the tall blonde took possession of her in a full-contact embrace. Kim tasted of mint, making Kerry briefly regret that she hadn't yet brushed her teeth, but the slow amble of tongue and lips and hands over waterslick skin was doing too thorough a job of sensory invigoration for her to dwell on anything else.

"Mmm. Good morning."

"Yes, it is. Might be improved, though."

"Oh?"

"For one thing, you could turn down the firehose that's pounding my ass."

"Sorry." Kerry twiddled a valve. "Better?"

"Much."

Leaning in to squint at the control panel, Kim turned off the wall jets one by one, leaving only the broad deluge from above. She unhooked a handheld sprayer from its slot and unhurriedly ran it over Kerry's scalp, the softly thrumming pulse soothing. Kerry purred as fingers worked delightfully scented shampoo through her hair, then rinsed it thoroughly, the rich lather slithering down her increasingly sensitive skin.

Her eyes fluttered shut as Kim's mouth closed over an already rigid nipple, moaning in anticipation as one hand slid down her belly toward her heated center...


	8. If I Were a Bell: Chapter 8

"An oyster bar? Kim, you do realize we're something like 700 miles from the nearest body of salt water."

"They opened for dinner at 5:00. At 4:00 the chef was still at the airport picking out the menu. Besides, Chicago's even farther inland and you eat seafood there."

We're in the parking lot at Z's after having done a stint of kamikaze shopping. Kerry looks stunning. She's wearing a heavy silk camisole in a color that shimmers somewhere between copper and gold and sets off her pale skin beautifully; the matching wide-legged pajama style pants billow and drape softly from the drawstring waist. Little strippy sandals, hoop earrings and a simple bangle bracelet round out the perfectly understated picture.

Impulsively I lean over to kiss her, in the process catching an elusive hint of a scent that — no, can't be. But sniffing behind her ear and at the base of her throat confirms that it most definitely is.

Oh, my.

She flashes me a mischievous smile. "You like? Read about it once in a magazine."

"What magazine, _Penthouse_?" I bleat, swallowing. "Kerry, if they could bottle that, Viagra would be out of business."

"You say the nicest things sometimes. Come on, then."

It's still early but already there's a substantial crowd and the bar's doing a brisk business. Looking around, I'm glad I insisted on going shopping; Kerry, I know, would have felt uncomfortable being underdressed.

The maitre d' leads us to a table in the center of the front section but I ask to be seated instead in the back, behind the big double aquariums that divide the space, where the cozy square mahogany booths offer more privacy.

Fresh carnations in a cobalt blue bud vase add their spicy note to the air, enhancing but by no means masking the far more alluring bouquet emanating subtly from across the table.

"Aren't you going to look at the menu?"

I shake my head. "I know what I want."

Kerry raises an eyebrow, then resumes studying the oversized pages.

A waiter materializes. They still believe in formality here; he is refreshingly devoid of the "Hi, my name is Brad and I'll be your best friend this evening" chumminess that pervades too many big-city establishments.

"Go ahead, Kim, I'm still deciding."

"Sure." My stomach not-so-silently rejoices. "Tell the pastry chef I want the bourbon-chocolate chip soufflé for dessert. I'll start with a dozen oysters. Whatever's freshest, I'm not picky about which kind, but don't open them, just bring me a knife and a bucket. A glass of something young and tart to go with them — " quickly I skim the wine list, " — the Groth Sauvignon Blanc will be fine. Caesar salad, easy on the dressing. And for the entree, the Dungeness crabs with a big pile of slightly burnt toast and a ton of melted butter."

They're both gawping with nearly identical expressions. Kerry recovers first. "I'll have the same." The waiter, busily scribbling, smiles, nods and scoops up the unwieldy menus before he rushes off.

She looks a question at me.

I shrug. "The University of Lousville's School of Medicine headhunted me pretty aggressively to revamp the Psych portion of their curriculum, give the students more of a grounding before they got tossed into their third-year clerkships. Wined and dined me here a few times until I gave them my decision."

"What was her name?"

I nearly choke on my water. "Melody, Melanie, something like that." I'm saved from elaborating further by the arrival of our oysters.

Two gigantic pewter platters bear quite an assortment, including bluepoints, Malpeques, half a dozen tiny Kumamotos, even some Belons and a few other varieties I don't immediately recognize. They're all tightly closed, I note with approval, and all nestled properly cup-side down in their bed of shaved ice. Ceremoniously, the waiter hands each of us a folded kitchen towel and a battered oyster knife, then sets down a large empty bowl.

I pluck out a Malpeque, pleased by its heft and the cold damp roughness of its shell, which is free of grit but still redolent of the ocean. Using the towel to protect my hand, I hold the oyster so the hinge faces me. I rock the short stout knife into the soft spot, give it a twist to pop the shell open, and sweep the blade forward through the adductor muscle; discarding the top shell, I scoop back under the meat to free it, careful not to spill any of the juices bathing the plump, glistening flesh. My mouth is watering but I make myself pause to savor the aroma, like a tidal breeze whipping over deep clear waves. "Shuck me, suck me, eat me raw," I say, saluting Kerry with the shell, then close my eyes, tilt back my head and slurp down my prize.

Its well-fed texture is buttery smooth and firm. As I chew, the initial sweetness evanesces into a succession of incomparably delicate briny mineral-edged flavors that spread from the tip to the sides to the back of my tongue and soft palate. It slips easily down my throat and I exhale to let the aftertaste linger, my entire mouth alive.

Slowly I open my eyes to discover Kerry watching me, her own knife still in hand and a Kumamoto poised in midair. "Was it good for you?" she asks, amused.

I give her a mock glare, then take a sip of tangy, intense wine and a bite of sourdough bread to reset my tastebuds before eagerly scouting out my next victim.

At first Kerry fastidiously wipes her lips and fingers after each oyster, but soon — probably fearing I'll dispatch the entire lot before she can eat her share — she's following my lead. Neck and neck we plunder and pillage, and in a disgracefully short time there's nothing left but melting ice and a bowl piled high with shells.

Nursing my wine, I halfway consider having another round and canceling the rest of my dinner. A busboy clears away the demolished remains; the waiter thoughtfully brings over lemon-scented fingerbowls and hot towels.

The salad is decent but anticlimactic, providing a short refractory period before we plunge back into barbarity with the crabs, dunking the exceptionally silky sweet meat into butter and crunching through stacks of toast.

More fingerbowls, more towels. I'm sure the waiter privately thinks a horse trough would be more appropriate.

Neither of us has spoken in nearly half an hour, mute testimony to the outstanding quality of the food. Kerry sighs. "That was, without doubt, one of the finest meals I've ever eaten."

"Mmm. Hope you saved room for dessert."

"Oh, God."

But when the soufflés appear, perfect airy brown poufs finished tableside with Cognac flambéed with crème anglaise, her appetite resurrects itself for one last effort and, like me, she devours every last melting bittersweet bite, even scraping out the corners of her ramekin.

Dawdling contentedly over coffee and port, we chat about anything and nothing, basking in the glow of absolute satiety. Kerry beats me to the credit card draw when the waiter hovers discreetly; as we're waiting for him to return, she leans toward me and stage whispers, "Hey, Kim."

"Yeah?"

"Shuck me, suck me, eat me raw."

I break all land speed records getting back to the hotel.


	9. If I Were a Bell: Chapter 9

"Look, there's another one." A small but brilliant meteor streaks low on the horizon across the starlit sky. Neither of us is in any hurry to get back to Chicago; the intermittent but spectacular overhead display is a welcome excuse for dawdling. The Audi hardly needs attention to keep it humming happily along I-65, an endless straightaway that for the last hundred miles or so we've had almost entirely to ourselves. Mary Chapin Carpenter croons softly in the background, the volume on the stereo just audible above the thrum of the tires.

"Mm."

I sneak a sidelong glance at Kerry. She shifts in her seat, clearly feeling the effects of the little toy we picked up at Cirilla's before leaving Louisville. Typically, she refuses to admit it's driving her crazy. Especially since wearing it out of the store was her idea.

"You doing all right?"

"Fine."

Grinning to myself, I drop my hand from the gearshift knob to rest on the inside of her knee. She says nothing but I can feel the tremors jittering up and down the muscles of her leg. I try not to smirk, wondering how much longer she'll be able to hold out.

"Where do you think that one's going?" Kerry points to a slow-moving light, trying to distract me.

"I don't know, maybe Cleveland?"

"What?"

"That's a plane, Kerry."

"Oh." She squirms again, letting out a soft involuntary moan as the curved metal plug in her ass rubs her in just the right way.

It's the sexiest sound I've ever heard. Suddenly Kerry's not the only one unable to sit still.

We pass a sign that informs us that Lafayette is coming up in 40 miles. There's not much of anything around other than open farmland and we haven't seen another car in ages. I make a quick decision and pull off the road, bumping slowly over gravel and dry grass toward a strand of trees beside the highway.

"What are you doing?"

Shutting off the engine and unfastening my seatbelt, I lean over to kiss her roughly. Kerry responds in kind, her tongue caressing mine, hands winding almost painfully into my hair. "You," I manage to say, freeing her belt and undoing the buttons of her shirt. Impatiently I unsnap her bra and slide one hand along her ribcage, skimming the soft weight of her breast.

"About damn time," she growls. Turning to face me, she gasps as the motion torques her hip unexpectedly.

 _Shit!_ "Hang on, Kerry." I get out of the car and dash around to her door, helping her out and holding her close. I know better than to ask if she's okay — just as well, since her idea of "okay" would probably fell a steer. She leans into me, soft and warm and solid in my arms, until the tension of acute pain gradually leaches from her body. At last she tips up her head to claim my mouth again.

Tugging free the tails of her shirt, I let my hands roam over her back, stroking, caressing, slowly kneading the vicious little knots they find. Soon she is undulating against me, shamelessly grinding into my thigh. _Oh, no you don't, Kerry Weaver. Not without me_.

I slide one hand beneath the waistband of her slacks, past the silky scrap of underwear, lingering over the firm rounds of her buttocks, deliberately teasing before slipping my fingers into the plug's handle, an open oval nestled between her cheeks, and giving it a subtle tweak.

She gasps again, this time in pleasure. Plunge, twist, pull, tiny tiny motions of my wrist, just enough to keep her writhing and whimpering into our kiss.

Much as I would love to continue the delicious torment, I don't want to keep her standing. Reluctantly breaking away, I reach behind the seats for my coat, a marvel of inky black cashmere I scored at a vintage consignment store in Hyde Park. Mentally apologizing to my dry cleaner, I fling the coat over the hood of the car and return to Kerry, slipping off her shirt and bra and guiding her to lie down on my impromptu blanket. She offers no resistance as I remove the rest of her clothing. Her skin gleams in the faint glow of the stars and sliver of moon; I let my imagination fill in the details about how she looks sprawled naked against the dark red silk lining. But I don't need to be able to see to know that she is dripping, _sliding_ wet.

Bracing my weight on my elbows, I drape myself over her. Our mouths meet hungrily, my lips already so sensitive I can feel her pulse through them. "Too many clothes," she complains in between kisses. I have to agree, and quickly remedy the situation. I do leave on my socks — the ground is freezing and not exactly forgiving — but at least she can't see how ridiculous I look.

Her entire body is trembling, not from cold but from the desperate need for release. I'm not far behind her.

I kiss a trail down her neck. Kerry moans and offers the tendons and curves of her throat to me. Her hands settle on my shoulders, pushing in unmistakable demand.

All too happy to oblige, I move downward, kissing and gently biting her breasts, licking and sucking at pebble-hard nipples until she arches into my mouth, her breath shallow and rapid. "Please," she rasps, pushing my shoulders again.

Brushing my lips along her belly, I hover just above her mound, the rising scent making me salivate. "Please what?"

Hands claw at my hair. "That pussy isn't going to eat itself, Legaspi!"

I almost choke on a laugh. Her thighs part willingly and I barely have time to appreciate the way the moonlight glistens on the split of her sex before she pulls me into her gloriously swollen, weeping folds. A few greedy swirling laps of my tongue is all it takes to set her off, her hips jerking powerfully, her cunt bathing me with her come, shrieking cries getting lost in the darkness.

Taking advantage of her slacking muscles, I settle her legs over my shoulders to open her more fully to my attentions, languorously licking and nibbling at her labia and plumply rigid clit while once again playing with the plug in her ass, drawing out her paroxysms and rolling one orgasm into another and another.

Kerry's breathing deepens and slows, the aftershocks gradually calming. Her hips never stop churning, though, and she emits a charming little mewling sound every time I pull the smooth wide head of the plug almost all the way out, then pop it back in through her spasming muscular ring.

"Kim." Her voice is hoarse, shaky.

I gently bite the inside of one thigh. "Yes, Kerry?"

"Come here."

Carefully I lower her legs and scoot up to kiss her, letting her taste herself all over my face. The sloping hood isn't nearly long enough for us to lie fully stretched out, of course, but I'm fairly comfortable with my feet braced on the ground and Kerry tucked against me. The engine beneath us is still ticking and radiating warmth, a pleasant contrast to the frigid night air playing over our heated bodies.

"I've never had sex in a cornfield before," she murmurs, slowly trailing her fingers over my belly in intriguing patterns.

I smile as I press my lips to her temple. "You still haven't. That's rye, or maybe oats. Some kind of winter cover crop, anyway. Corn doesn't get planted until late April around here."

"Don't tell me. You used to date a farmer."

"My ex-Jessica. MS in agriculture and all that. Specialized in cultivating soil bacteria and rotating crops to increase yield. Also used to get, um, frisky whenever she supervised the breeding of her horses."

"Oh?"

"The horses actually seemed to enjoy watching us. It got a little weird."

"I'll bet. Speaking of weird," Kerry purrs into my ear, "how'd you like to christen our other new acquisition?"

My pulse quickens. "You sure you can handle it?"

"I'd hate to think you were losing your touch, Legaspi."

***********************************************************************************************

_"Hello?"_

"Hi, Kate, it's me."

_"About time. When did you get in?"_

"A little after midnight."

_"Good trip?"_

"You could say that."

_*sigh* "Meaning that you had mad hot monkey sex the entire weekend. I need to find a girlfriend who will — goddammit, you fucked her in the car, didn't you?"_

"I plead the Fifth. Don't worry, I'm getting it detailed before I drop it back at your place."

_"You'd damned well better. Hey, did you hear that Christy's moved back to Chicago?"_

"Yeah, we're actually having lunch today."

_"We're meeting for dinner, some new place in Bucktown. Want to join us? Bring Kerry along, I've been dying to meet her."_

"Sure, I'll see what her schedule's like. Listen, I gotta run. Talk to you later, babe."


End file.
